


God Bless the 18th Century

by orphan_account



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, No redeeming qualities whatsoever, Smut, lyatt, segmented sleep was a real thing and you better believe your ancestors were getting it on at 2am, sexytimes in 1770
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When your neighbors are getting it on, loudly, you have two choices: you can either listen, awkwardly, or drown them out.Lucy and Wyatt do a little of both.Or: this fic pretends to be filling the 'Lucy sees Wyatt's scar' prompt from the weekly challenge, but is really just an excuse for them to bang.





	God Bless the 18th Century

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the weekly challenge prompt: Lucy notices the scar on Wyatt left by the gunshot during their trip back to Lincoln’s assassination. (submitted by anon).
> 
> Even though the style and situation will give me away, I’m still orphaning this one. And if anyone asks, I’ll claim no knowledge of it.  
> Orphaned ftw.
> 
> Enjoy.

“I hate the 18th century.”

“I’m not the biggest fan either,” Lucy replied, watching Wyatt in amusement. He moved around the room, cursing as he struggled to light candles with flint in the quickly darkening room. Each click of the stone was followed by an exasperated noise, and she was glad he'd offered because nothing he was currently doing sounded like her idea of fun. 

“And why are these candles so greasy?” he asked, wiping his hand down his pants.

“It’s animal fat,” Lucy told him. “Not wax.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Wyatt drawled. “Dare I ask what kind of animal?”

“Whale?” Rufus asked.

“No, not whale. These people weren’t well off enough for that.” She looked at Wyatt. “Probably nothing worse than you’ve ever eaten in a burger.”

"Great,” he said, rubbing his greasy fingers together with a look of disgust on his face. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked, using one successfuly lit candle to light all the others and brighten up the room.

“Bunk here until Emma shows her face?” Rufus suggested.

"Today is March 4th, 1770," Lucy reminded them. "I suspect she might be trying to stop Rittenhouse members being killed in the massacre tomorrow evening.”

Rufus nodded in agreement, and the team settled in the small room, on one of the beds, Lucy and Wyatt at opposite sides, Rufus at the foot, the dinner of bread and cheese they'd picked up near their lodging spread out between them. They ate and laughed, enjoying a few hours of peace before all hell broke loose the next day. Sharing stories, teasing each other, it almost felt normal, this life they had all been dragged into, over a year ago now. A few memories of their childhoods were shared between Rufus and Lucy, but Wyatt only listened, not adding his own. Lucy caught Wyatt watching her with a soft expression on his face as she spoke about summers out East with her mother and sister, but when she gestured for him to talk instead, he only shook his head and turned his attention to Rufus, who happily spoke of his own summers with his family. Neither pushed him further, knowing he'd talk when he was ready. It wasn't to be on this evening it seemed. 

Three hours later, the last of the bread in a yawning Rufus' hand, breakfast for the team, he nodded back towards the door. “See you guys in the morning. I’m gonna sleep in the lifeboat, which is a hell of a lot warmer than this room.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “Seriously, why is Boston so cold?”

Lucy laughed. “Sleep well,” she said, smiling.

“You too.” He nodded to Wyatt, a silent goodnight, and then left them alone. In the tiny room.

“At least there’s two beds this time,” she told him.

“I would have had no problem sharing the bed with him. Or you and I could have shared.” He shrugged, and then stood and stretched, before moving to the other bed, his for the night.

“It is kind of cold in here,” Lucy reminded him. “The lifeboat always has that comfortable temperature, no matter what’s happening outside.” She smiled. “I think he got the better deal, to be honest.” She glanced at the candles flickering in the room, the only light, the only heat they had. Well, except each other. But she wouldn’t be the first to mention that. “I’m going to change, do you mind if I extinguish the candles now?”

He moved to his own bed and sat down on the edge. “No problem.” He blew out the candles nearest him, keeping the flint nearby, and began removing his shoes.

Blowing out the candles on her side, the room was pitched into darkness.

“Wow,” Lucy murmured. “Sometimes I forget how dark night really is.”

A rustle of clothing came from the bed beside hers. “I remember camping as a kid, with my Grandpa Sherwin. First time I truly understood night.”

“And your mom?” she ventured, working on peeling off her clothing as best she could in the dark.

He was silent, for a moment. She was about to tell him it was okay, he didn’t need to tell her. When he said, “She was around, and… not around. My grandpa looked after both of us.” He sighed. “My father, if I can call him that, liked to call her crazy. It wasn’t until I was older and understood depression that I understood my mom. Anyway,” he said, heaving in another sigh. “She took her life. I was seven.”

Lucy felt tears pricking at her eyes. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, dad split after that. And Grandpa Sherwin raised me till I was old enough to enlist. And that,” he said, chuckling darkly, “is Wyatt Logan’s pathetic life.”

“It’s not pathetic,” she told him. “It’s sad, and God, for a kid to go through all that. I can’t begin to imagine. You got through it, Wyatt. You’re amazing,” she finished on an exhaled breath.

He was silent again. She resumed undressing, not really knowing what to say after that. But she smiled as she heard his whispered, "Thank you", and she considered replying, but it felt like enough had been said.

Tugging the dress over her head, she wondered how woman had done this on a daily basis. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to get out of it. But going to bed in the monstrosity wasn’t an option. She tugged, and something snagged her hair, and suddenly she couldn’t go any further. She was trapped, with the dress covering her face, not quite on and not quite off.

“You okay?” Wyatt asked, hearing her frustrated groan.

“I think I’m stuck.”

He heard a rustle of material, a growl of annoyance, and then a sigh of resignation.

“Yeah, I’m definitely stuck.”

“Stuck how?” He reached out in the darkness, but only touched air. Pushing off his bed, he took a tentative step towards her bed, and tried again. His fingers closed around a small, soft mound and-

“Yes, Wyatt, that’s my boob,” she said, keeping her tone dry, hiding how the feel of his palm sweeping over her nipple had sent sparks of electricity straight down to panties that weren’t designed to handle such arousal.

“Sorry, it’s dark,” he reminded her. He moved his hand up, and where her neck, her chin, her lovely face, should have been, was only the scratchy linen of her dress.

“Help,” she implored, before reminding him, “Claustrophobic.” Her voice pitched higher, her anxiety setting in, tamping down her arousal. “Something’s snagged on my hair.”

“Okay. Hang on…” Finding the edges of the dress, Wyatt untangled her hair and helped ease Lucy out of it. “How did you even manage that?”

“I don’t know.” She realized then how close he was. She could feel his warm breath skirting her lips, could feel the heat radiating from his body. She could have leaned forward and kissed him, and if no body saw it they could both deny it had ever happened.

“You okay now?” His hand reached out and his grazed her cheek with his fingertips. “Can you breathe again?”

Steadying her voice, she replied, “Yes, thank you.”

“Good. That was a close one.”

“Are you making fun of my phobia?” she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper because of his proximity.

“I would never make fun of that,” he promised. His hand left her cheek, trailed down her arm, until he found her hand. He laced their fingers together and squeezed it. “You mind if I keep a candle lit tonight?”

“I think it’s a good idea,” she agreed, wondering how long he was going to keep his hand in hers. It was nice. The warmth of his skin, the contact. Unable to help herself, she eased her hand free and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him to her in the darkness. “Seriously, thank you for freeing me,” she whispered against him.

“Always,” he replied, holding her just a little tighter. He pulled back, before the hug went too long, before either could start to question its purpose, and asked, “Help me light one?”

“Guide me to it?”

He chuckled in the darkness. “Might have to help each other there.”

She trailed her fingers down his arm, until she found his elbow and curled her hand around it. They felt around for the table, bumping hips as they shuffled forward, both laughing, with a hint of nervousness, at the situation. She found the candle, he struck the flint, and soon the orange glow of a lone candle filled the space between their beds.

Wyatt met her eyes, smiled at her, and she shivered, releasing his elbow to wrap her arms around her waist.

He saw the shiver, her response, and pulled down the blankets on the bed. “Get in,” he said, his voice warm.

She did as told, tugging her thin slip down as she sat on the mattress, and then fussed with her pillow. He pulled the blankets up to her waist, tucking them in just tight enough to allow her room to shuffle down and get comfortable. Without a thought, he reached forward and trailed the tips of two fingers down the side of her face, a curious expression on his own face as he did so. Before he pulled back, murmured a, "Good night," and retired to his own bed.

Part of her had wanted to ask him to stay. To squeeze in beside her and curl into her, keeping them both warm.  
Most of her knew that was a terrible, dangerous, idea.

“Night,” she whispered, before sliding down, turning onto her side to face him, and closing her eyes. But seeing him do the same, meeting his eyes before closing her own, seeing the softness in them in the candle light, it fired up that warmth again, sent her pulse racing, until sleep was the last thing on her mind.

 

* * *

 

Sleep had won – for a while. She awoke, confused, to hear Wyatt shuffling around near the window. When the haze of sleep was blinked away, and she found her voice, she sat up, and whispered, “Wyatt? What is it?”

“I heard someone outside,” he said from the window.

“Yeah, you probably did.”

He turned to her, the candle still burning enough for him to see her. “What do you mean?”

“People used to sleep differently.” At his confused look, she said, “It was segmented. They’d go to bed, get up in the middle of the night, do stuff for a while, and then go back to bed. So, it’s no surprise people are moving around now.”

“Do stuff? Like, what?” He glanced around. “What is there to do.” Satisfied by her answer, he moved back to his bed, slipping under the blankets but sitting up, his back to the wall, his head turned towards her.

“Some read, prayed. Some gathered together to chat. Some even went to visit friends, which is probably what you’re hearing now.”

“And they did this every night?”

“Yeah,” Lucy replied. “It was how they slept.”

A loud moan from the next room silenced them both. Wyatt cocked an eyebrow. “And some did that.”

Lucy laughed. “Well, to be fair, they were probably tired after working all day. In between sleeps was the best time for it.”

The bed next door hit the wall with a steady rhythm, one that was increasing. The woman’s moans turned into gasps of pleasure, and Wyatt and Lucy both looked at each other with raised eyebrows and parted lips.

“Wow, they’re really going for it,” Wyatt said, feeling the vibration of the headboard against his back. He chuckled. “This is a hotel, right? Not a brothel?”

Lucy hid her face in her hands. “I’m not sure that bed’s going to survive.” Her hands fell from her face as the cries of orgasm filled their room, and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God."

The rhythm slowed, for a few beats, and then started up again with renewed vigor. “I was going to joke about not a single fuck being given but no…. there’s definitely more than one—“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Lucy cut in, laughing as she said it. “I think this might be the most awkward moment of my life.” Truth be told, it was turning her on. The sounds of passion, the increasing cries of pleasure coming from the woman, the bed hitting the wall between them with more and more force, the grunts from the man. She could picture it. On her knees, her hands clasping the bedhead. Wyatt behind her, gripping her hips, entering her deeper with each powerful thrust. She crossed her legs, bringing her thighs together tight, but it didn’t ease the ache between her legs, it only added friction.

She flicked her eyes up, to find Wyatt studying her. The knowing smile playing on his lips didn’t escape her. “What?” she asked, attempting innocence.

“Your skin’s awfully pink there, Lucy,” he murmured. He studied her, seeing the dilated pupils that made her already brown eyes seem impossibly darker. “I think you like what you hear.”

“Well if you think that pillow that's suddenly on your lap is hiding your own arousal…”

He stared at her, the smirk twitching at his lips. She couldn’t stand it, she couldn’t sit there, in a bed, him in a similar state of undress to her, knowing what was happening in the bed next door. She had to get up, she needed distance, before she did something she’d regret. Or he didn’t want. Before she embarrassed herself completely. His was a natural reaction to sex, she reminded herself. And sleep. Maybe it was both. It wasn’t because he wanted to sleep with her.

Getting up, she strode to the window, and watched as figures moved around in the darkness, none of them suspicious, all just going about their midnight ways. She inhaled through her nose, willed her heart to settle, willed the ache between her legs to cease. 

His hands curled at her waist, and she jolted at the touch, not expecting it. “You okay?” he murmured into her ear.

“Wyatt—“ There was a warning in her voice. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she did. And if he came any closer she might lose her hold on what tendrils of self-control she was still clinging to.

“Because I’m not okay,” he admitted, his fingers flexing at her hips. “I’m attracted to my friend, and the noises next door are making it difficult to keep myself from kissing her.”

She sucked in a surprised breath. The truth was out there now; he couldn’t take it back. “Then kiss her.”

Dragging one of his hands from her hips, he brushed her hair aside, his fingers ghosting across her skin, and then pressed open-mouthed kisses to her neck, leaving a hot trail down to her shoulder. He brushed the thin strap of her slip aside, and continued to journey his lips across her shoulder. Dropping her head back, Lucy let it rest against his shoulder and closed her eyes as his mouth tasted and nipped at her skin. The angle of her head curved her neck, giving him unhindered access.

Wyatt ran his hand down her side, back to her hip, before exploring lower, to the hem of the short slip. He dragged it up her thigh, the material sliding against her skin, and moved his hand across to the eighteenth century underwear she wore.

“Shit, Lucy,” he breathed against her ear, the tips of his fingers finding her clit and sliding freely across it without material between them. 

“Welcome to 1770,” she stuttered out, her breath hitching. Her heart rate climbed with each sensual slide of his fingers, the buzz of arousal muting any rational thought. “I need you.”

He didn’t need any further prompting. He slid her slip up, over her head, unconcerned about anyone seeing them as they stood near the window. Pressing his body to hers, his erection hard against her lower back, he walked her forward, to the wall, and she braced her hands to the wooden logs, finding purchase on the rough bark scratching her palms.

"You good?" he asked, his voice low in her ear. "I mean, I'm clean. I figure you are, and you're on...something?"

She nodded. "Yeah, got it covered, I promise. And I trust you."

"I trust you too," he replied, sealing the promise with his lips on her neck while he removed his underwear, which wasn't anywhere near as sexy as the scraps of crotchless material moonlighting as panties that she still wore.

Nudging her legs apart with his knees, gripping at her hips, he slid the tip of his hard length through her folds, teasing both of them with the promise of more. Angling his hips up, he pushed into her from behind, entering slowly as her muscles drew him in.

Her head fell back as every inch of his thick shaft filled her, until her cheek was pressed to his stubble-roughened jaw and both paused, breathing deep as their bodies connected in the most intimate of ways.  
And then she leaned forward, bracing her feet firmly on the cool floor, and pressed her pelvis back, urging him on.

Gripping harder at her hips, he eased out, and thrust back in, easily finding a rhythm as Lucy rocked back to meet him.

The slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with the sounds still filtering in from the next room, until it became a symphony of sex, of moans and gasps, thuds against the wall, and skin hitting skin.

He fucked her; Wyatt couldn’t think of a more eloquent term for it as he pounded into her, her gasps, her breathy, broken cries of his name, urging him to not hold back. He couldn’t think at all. This first time between them, in these rustic lodgings they dared to call a hotel, was fulfilling their needs, and little more. Dragging a hand across her stomach, down between her legs, he rubbed her clit, no gentleness in the action, his calloused fingers mixing with her wet desire for him, pushing her to the edge of release, until she fell, shuddering back as she came hard against him.

Easing out, he turned her shaking body in his arms, and pulled her into them, holding her up as his mouth found her lips, and he kissed her, his touch lighter now. She sighed into the kiss, holding tight to him, her contracting muscles making her want to slip to the floor.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers, for a moment, and breathed her in. “Let’s take this to the bed,” he murmured, his breath mixing with hers.

She could only nod.

He led her to the bed and moved to lay her down, but she had other plans, and he grinned as he laid down on his back as commanded, Lucy straddling his hips the moment he was settled. Without a word, she curled her palm around his erection, and eased down, controlling the speed at which he filled her. With slow shifts of her hips, she began to rise and fall above him.

Pushing his undershirt up, she raked her nails up his muscled stomach, down again, and explored his skin. She paused when the texture changed beneath her fingers, her hand at his side now, feeling the scar beneath her touch.

She exhaled a knowing, _oh_ , and ceased the rocking of her hips, the feel of the scar triggering a memory. She swept the pads of her fingers over it, like her healing touch could erase it, and then rocked forward again, sliding up his hard length.

Leaning back, Lucy reached behind and gripped his thighs, his own hands finding her hips again. He helped guide her movements as she rolled her hips, rising up, rocking back down, finding her own rhythm.

His gaze travelled along the curve of her body in wonder, her arched body, her breasts, pushed up, and her head back. The material of her underwear grazed his skin as she rocked, adding to the friction they created. He wasn’t going to last much longer.

When her muscles fluttered around him, squeezing his cock as she rocked, he felt the buildup of his orgasm, his hips losing the rhythm, no longer able to meet hers but becoming sloppy with the increasing tension in his muscles and the tightening of his testicles.

She gasped out a surprised, “Oh,” signaling her second orgasm, and he couldn’t hold his own back any longer.

Letting go, his muscles contracted and he came, ejaculating into her as her own body stiffened above him, before she shook from her own release.

Lucy pushed herself off his thighs, and then dropped forward, her body fluttering down to cover his, her legs splayed across his hips, his still-hard cock nestled deep within her.

Tugging the blankets up over their cooling skin, he wrapped her in his arms and pressed kisses to the crown of her head, smiling as she sighed into his chest.

“So that just happened,” he murmured into her hair.

She puffed out a joyful sound. “You okay with that?” Her voice was soft, but not hesitant.

“Very, very okay with it,” he assured her. “Wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

“Me too,” she replied. She shifted her hips and he eased out of her, and they repositioned their legs until hers were stretched out on either side of his, her knees no longer digging into the hard mattress. “When we get back, tomorrow night all going well, want to get a drink?” she asked, lifting her chin and meeting his eyes.

“Are you asking me out?” he asked, teasing her a little.

“Damn straight.”

He grinned. “Then I would love to.”

“Good,” she replied, leaning up to claim his lips.

His hands cupped her face and he returned the kiss. Pulling back, he grinned, and rolled them, until she was pinned beneath him, the sharp press of his hardening length against her belly.

"Already?” she asked in surprised joy. She laughed at his twinkling eyes. “Must be that military background,” she said, spreading her legs so he could nestle between them.

“Or maybe it’s you,” he murmured, dipping his head to sweep his tongue across her breast.

Any smart replies flew from her mind the moment his mouth closed around her nipple, his tongue teasing her with firm flicks. She arched up into his mouth and closed her eyes.

God bless the 18th century and its segmented sleep.

 

 


End file.
